


Life Obliges

by JinkyO



Series: Before Us There Was Me [6]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Bad Cooking, Christmas, F/M, Identity Porn, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5329436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold Martin and Grace Hendricks spend Christmas together. Harold Wren and Nathan Ingram do not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A soft series of beeps signaled the end of the test. Harold glanced down at his watch, then rose to join Nathan across the room in front of the machine.

Together they studied the seemingly random splashes of red, blue, and green dots graphed over the monitor. “The outputs are all over the place,” Nathan said, shaking his head slowly.

Harold stepped up to the keyboard, nudging Nathan aside in the process. “It’s still hitting a roadblock on the multinomial logistics,” he murmured, pulling up the raw test data.

“Can we decrease the number of independent variables?” Nathan asked, looking over Harold’s shoulder.

“Why? We’ll lose three days of work if we start all over again.”

“And how many days will we lose if we have to debug this thing each time we add new variables?”

“It’s taken us a month to get to this point.” Harold snapped, straightening up. “I’m not interested in taking a step backward.”

“Fine,” Nathan said bleakly. “I’ll start another pot of coffee while you get the new test data loaded.”

“It’s Christmas eve, Nathan.” Harold spun his wrist and checked his watch. “8:32pm on Christmas eve.”

“I know. I’m okay. Will went to Olivia’s this year.”

“Did it occur to you that  _I_  might like to go home?”

Nathan stared at him for a moment before his grim face broke into a smile. “That’s a good one, Harold.”

“Call me sentimental but I don’t want to spend my Christmas eve in the lab.”

Nathan tilted his head cautiously. “Do you want to come back to the loft?” 

“No.”

“Oh.” Nathan dropped his shoulders.

“I assumed you’d already made arrangements for yourself. Of course, most of your social distractions have probably gone home for the holiday break.”

“Jesus, Harold,” Nathan said, running his hand over his face.

“I didn’t…”

“No, you meant exactly what you said.” Nathan crossed back to his own desk. “Go home,” he said, shutting his computer down. “When you’re ready to get back to work, give me a call.”

“Nathan…”

“It’s late,” Nathan said brusquely as he slid his jacket on. “You’re right. We’ll take a few days to figure out what’s gumming up the works.”

“We can get back to it Monday morning.”

“Great.” Nathan rummaged through his pockets for his keys. “Sounds fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Harold called as Nathan strode across the lab for the door.

Nathan kept walking. When he reached the door he paused for a moment. “Have a Merry Christmas, Harold.” Then he was gone.

Harold waited. He could make time for one drink with Nathan. One. At the restaurant on the corner, assuming they were still open, not the loft.

He pushed off the desk and took a step for the door.

But it  _was_  late. Later than he’d anticipated.

At this rate it would be nearly 10:00pm before he got home. Nathan would be fine. If the restaurant was closed, he surely had a personal supply to keep him company over the weekend. Turning back, he made his way around the lab and shut down the equipment. With all the machines humming gently on standby power, Harold turned out the lights and locked the lab.


	2. Chapter 2

**Harold**

He took the train from midtown and replayed his conversation with Nathan. The fractures were growing deeper. The machine played some role in the strain, but it was more than that. Harold hadn't really thought through the consequences of adding Grace Hendricks to his life at the exact time Nathan's life was falling apart. In the beginning it was easy enough, Harold was a grand master of donning and shedding identities. He had been excellent as the consoling best friend: a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to lean on, and in the immediate aftermath of the divorce, _and against every shred of common sense_ , a warmhearted bed warmer. Despite years spent hardening his defenses, Nathan was still, and would always be, his Achilles heel.

When Harold's relationship with Grace made the slow shift from chaste kisses and courtly dinner dates after work, the angles of his balancing act shifted. Harold learned to say _No_ to Nathan, in the same breath that he learned _Yes_ for Grace.

The train came made a stop at the 23rd Street station, his usual stop if he were spending the night at his Gramercy Park apartment. He'd have to sell the place eventually. His future was Grace and her cozy Washington Square townhouse -their house. In the future, Harold Martin wouldn't need a half dozen homes scattered across the island. But the future was still a while off. In the meantime, the apartment, along with the others, served as safe houses. Buffer zones where he didn't have to be Martin, or Wren, or anyone but himself.

He disembarked at the Union Square station to switch trains. It was nearly 9:30 and the station buzzed with life. A trio of buskers serenaded the holiday travelers as they traversed the platforms. Vendors hawked their shiny baubles and trinkets in hopes of a few more last minute sales. A churro stand caught his attention. Grace had worked from home all day which meant she had more than enough time to attempt dinner. His stomach lurched at the thought. Harold came to a stop and rifled through his pockets for a bill. The sweet fried dough was hardly a proper dinner, but neither was whatever awaited him at home.

He spent the rest of his commute home deconstructing the log-linear model underlying this most recent setback with the Machine. Absently chewing his last churro, he crossed Washington Square Park, while, in his head, he shifted and rebalanced the equations and slowly narrowed the scope of the error. He was anxious to get back to the lab Monday morning.

He stopped on the sidewalk outside of Grace's house -their house, and brushed sugary crumbs from his mouth and coat.

The house -their house, looked beautiful from here. He traced the soft glow of the Christmas tree that illuminated the living room behind the pale yellow curtains. It was a real Balsam Fir from a tree lot across the park. Neither Grace nor himself came to the tree raising with heirloom ornaments, or anything to decorate the tree, so they started from scratch together with a simple strand of white lights.

It was a beautiful tree.

Harold hurried up the steps, afraid that Grace may have already gone to bed. He juggled his key in the lock and opened the door quietly but as soon as he stepped inside, he realized a sleeping Grace was the least of his troubles.

“Harold? I'm back here,” Grace called.

“On my way,” he choked out, leaving the front door open a bit longer to let the smoke out. “What's for dinner?”


	3. Chapter 3

A loud crash, followed immediately by Grace's sharp, _Shit!_ answered Harold's question. He turned his head out towards the park and inhaled deeply before he closed and locked the front door then walked through the smoke filled house to the kitchen.

The back window was open, siphoning a steady stream of smoke from the oven to the outside. Grace stood in the middle of the kitchen, vivid red hair pulled back into a ponytail and her hands on her hips. At her feet lay dinner.

“What was it?” Harold asked, unhooking the broom and dustpan from the pantry wall.

“Beef Wellington,” Grace said sadly. “Rachel Ray did a show on it and it looked so easy!”

Harold handed her the dustpan. “So, what happened?” he asked, sweeping the shattered Pyrex baking dish, burnt pastry and bloody beef tenderloin into a neat pile.

Grace threw her hand up and shrugged. “Me.” She dropped down to hold the dustpan against the ruined meal while Harold carefully swept up the mess. “I just wanted to make something nice for us tonight, you know? We eat out all the time and I thought -Wouldn't it be great to have a homemade Christmas Eve dinner?”

Harold pulled the trashcan out for her. “What else did you cook to go with the Beef Wellington? We can still have that.”

“Brussel sprouts and a box of mashed potatoes.”

“Mmm.... I like brussel sprouts.” He took the dustpan from her hand and replaced the cleaning supplies. “I like mashed potatoes. There's leftover chicken fried rice in the fridge...” He slipped his arms around Grace's waist and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. “We'll have a lovely Christmas Eve dinner anyway.”

“If you're trying to make me feel better, it's working,” she said, giving him a squeeze through his heavy winter coat.

“I could spend my whole life making you feel better,” he said with a smile.

Grace sighed and rested her head against his coat. “Harold Martin, how did I get so lucky?”

“Oh, I don't know,” he teased, sliding a hand up her back. “We started this off with me feeding you instead of the other way around?”

She slapped her hand against his chest and pushed away with a laugh. “That was a low blow, Harold!”

“Oh, I can blow lower, much, much lower. Maybe I'll show you later tonight,” he said, grinning as he undid his coat. “Let me put my things away and get cleaned up then I'll help you finish dinner.”

He hung his coat in the living room closet then walked back to Grace's -their bedroom to pull out of his suit, swapping it for a neat pair of slacks and a soft t-shirt. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Grace had the bagged sprouts, the rice, and boxed potatoes sitting out. On the stove, two pots of water sat simmering.

“How was your day?” he asked, grabbing the second kitchen apron from the hook and tying it on. “Did you make any progress on the cover?”

“A little,” she said, joining him at the prep counter and taking up the sprouts. “I'm more of a landscapes and portraits artist. The natural world, you know? I'm having a hard time connecting to this project. I mean, the concept of the book is _so_ gritty. Dirty cops and mobsters and,” she paused for a moment. “I don't know. I just need a little more time to see the image in my head before I go back to the sketches. The publishers aren't expecting anything until January anyway.”

They set up a sprout trimming assembly line of sorts, their arms brushing together as they worked. “It's supposed to be decent weather tomorrow. Why don't we go out and do a little people watching? That might kick-start some ideas.”

“That's an idea,” she said, gathering up the sprouts and dumping them into a strainer to rinse in the sink. “I don't get to have you to myself all day that often. I was hoping, maybe, we could just stay home tomorrow.” She shut off the faucet and turned towards him. “I _do_ have you to myself all day tomorrow, right? You don't have to go into work, do you?”

“No. I took the weekend off.”

“Good,” she said, nodding. “You work too much.”

“But I like work,” he said as he salted the water for the sprouts. “Believe me, you wouldn't want me hanging around the house all the time.”

“Maybe I would? I'd keep you barefoot and naked all day.”

Harold laughed and took the strainer full of sprouts from her to drop into the boiling water. “Keep going.”

“You could be my model. I'd paint you like a French girl everyday -and I bet I could make a mint selling the canvases!”

“Who would pay for pictures of me naked?”

“Oh, I know people,” she said, waggling her brows.

“You are insane,” Harold sat the empty strainer aside so that he could pull her to him. “Absolutely insane, and I love you for it.”

“And I love you,” she answered.

And that was it, the simplest algorithm he'd ever solved. He loved Grace and she loved him. She made him happy.

They ate in the kitchen. They talked about his day at work. He didn't have to obscure too much of the narrative. Grace knew he worked on computer programs -a broad enough term to encompass the Machine. They talked about the new film, _Avatar_ , that everyone but them seemed to have seen so far and made tentative plans to rectify that at some point in the coming week. They talked about the front gate and the new coat of paint it desperately needed. They talked through the course of the odds and ends dinner and when they finished, they left the dishes for morning. Grace carried the rest of their bottle of Riesling to the living room and Harold followed with their glasses, shutting off the lights as he went.

The Christmas tree glowed gently in the darkened room. Grace snuggled against him on the couch and Harold breathed her in. As invigorating as his work on the Machine was, especially now with him and Nathan so close to solving the last glitches, this was still his favorite part of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story got a bit larger than I'd originally planned. (And took a slightly more mature turn.) The previously posted update schedule has been scrapped. I'll fill my poi advent calendar commitments with other works outside of this story.

They finished the bottle of wine and it wasn't long after that they both fell asleep on the couch. It was past midnight when the cold tingling in Harold's fingers finally woke him. "Grace?" he whispered, slowly pulling his numb arm from under her. "Get up. There's more room in bed."

Shutting off the tree lights first, they stumbled hand-in-hand in the dark to the bedroom.

It had taken Harold nearly two years to make it to this room. For all of her artistic open-mindedness about other people's relationships, Grace was resolutely Victorian in her thoughts on her own relationships.

After their first real date: a Queen Elizabeth II biopic followed by coffee and an amazing conversation about Italy, Harold walked her home. He was rewarded with the promise of a phone call, and a demure smile.

She smiled for the next four months.

By the time her birthday came around, he'd long given up his expectations of a good night kiss -or more. He knew some people simply weren't wired that way and, while he most definitely _was_ , he'd learned how to take care of himself many years ago. When the kiss finally came, punctuating her acceptance of his secrets, it was unexpected and potent.

She had decided that he was worth taking a chance on.

Harold flicked on the bedside lamp. He sat on the bed and began undressing while Grace moved past him towards the linen closet, turning the thermostat up on her way.

"Shower?"

"A quick one. The wine got me all relaxed so I'm gonna' go with it," she said, pulling out her nightgown and a thick robe.

Harold sat his shoes down. "Do you need a back scrubber?"

"Only if he has fast hands," Grace said, laying out her things along the foot of the bed.

"I know just the guy."

"Give me five minutes. I'll get the water going."

The bedroom was already beginning to warm up and he longed to slide under the heavy blankets and rest his body. He was was tired but the thought of slipping into bed after a hot shower sounded like the perfect sleep aid for his racing mind. He gave Grace a bit of privacy while he finished undressing. Naked, he joined her in the bathroom.

She was already in the shower. He took a quick moment to empty his bladder before he pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the billowing clouds of steam behind her.

"You're just in time," Grace said as she handed him the soapy mesh shower ball.

He held her damp ponytail out of the way with one hand and drew a slow circle over her the back of her neck. "You wouldn't have waited for me?"

"I told you, fast hands."

Feet planted wide, Harold hooked an arm around her hip to steady them in the tub. The slow circles turned into lazy figure eights as he moved from her shoulder blades down to her tail bone and back. He took his time and felt her relax completely against him.

"You're pretty good at this," she murmured.

"I could always use more practice," he said, brushing his lips against her neck.

After a while the scrubby lost its suds. He reached for the shower gel but Grace caught his hand and stopped him. She pumped herself a handful of the subtly scented gel then careful turned to face him. "It _is_ the season for giving," she said in answer to his wide smile.

They shifted in the tight space so that the warm spray hit them both and then Grace started on his chest.

Harold caught hold of the safety bar and closed his eyes. Her slender hands worked the gel into a lather over his hair and skin. He gripped the bar tighter as she traced her fingers over his body and slowly made her way lower.

More gel, then her hand encircled him, touching him intimately. Harold could hear his quick and shallow breaths echoing in the tiled bath.

"Turn around."

"Grace..."

"Harold," she said with a sly smile. "What kind of back scrubber would I be if I only did half the job?"

With a shuddered groan, he complied. He braced against the tile, bending slightly to give her complete access. Grace had a light touch. Bold and adventurous, her sensitive hands soaped and cleaned every inch of skin. When she'd worked all the way down to his heels and up again, she gave him a playful slap to the backside to signal that she was finished.

There was no hiding his arousal when he turned to face her. "I think you're trying to steal my job, Miss Hendricks," he said in a half groan. They each took a step closer and he dropped his head to claim a deep, wet kiss. Harold's hands roamed over Grace's body, teasing her as the warm water ran over them. She clutched at his back and opened for his immodest fingers. Many of her Victorian mores had fallen by the wayside during their time as an official couple.

They slid against each other and rocked together under the steamy shower until neither couldn't hold off any longer. Grace snaked a hand up to the nape of his neck. Her body trembled around Harold's fingers. He deepened the kiss and rolled his hips, pushing into the tight space between their bodies.

He felt her tiny quakes against him as she raced towards release. Harold broke off the kiss in order to watch. His heart raced at the sight. Her head thrown back, Grace's skin glowed with the heat of the shower and her impending orgasm - and then she broke. Harold inhaled, feeling her warm rush against his fingers.

She was beautiful and she was his.

He gathered her into his arms as the familiar stirrings of his own body signaled the inevitable. He spilled, hot and messy onto her. The shower washed them clean as he continued to rock against her.

The cooling spray of water finally forced them out of the shower. They dried themselves in an easy silence that was interspersed with soft kisses and the stray touches of skin on skin. The bedroom was toasty warm when they came out. Grace turned the thermostat down.

"It's a wonder that Santa left you anything this year," Harold teased as they slipped into their night clothes.

"If he's got a list, I'm sure we're both on it. Besides," she said, drawing back the covers and crawling into bed. "I've already got everything I could possible want for Christmas."

Harold turned out the lamp and slide in behind her. He curled his body around her and pressed a kiss over her damp hair.

"Merry Christmas, Grace."

Grace pulled his hand from her hip and interlaced her fingers with his. "Merry Christmas, Harold."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Grace**

The morning chill roused Grace from sleep and she instinctively pulled the blanket over her head. In her shadowy cocoon, she burrowed in with Harold. He shifted and she went still. He wrapped his warm hand over her hip and resettled himself, and then he was quiet and Grace smiled. It was rare to wake up with him still in bed, much less still asleep.

Under the blankets, her safe place since as far back as Grace could remember, she watched his chest, covered in a thicket of dark hair, salted through with gray, gently rise and fall. Ever so lightly, she brushed her fingertip over one particularly spectacular silver curl. She'd had no idea all of this was hiding beneath his soft cotton undershirts.

Grace's eyes traced over his pale nipples to follow the trail down to his soft stomach then lower. She pulled her hand away. She wasn't ready to wake him so she couldn't touch just yet. He was in good shape for an older man, a statement that she realized sounded shallow, given that she was no spring chicken herself. However, despite his fondness for sweets and impossible work schedules, he made time for a healthy diet and kept active with early morning runs through the park. Grace didn't touch, but she could appreciate his efforts because, at age fifty, Harold Martin was very much a lovely man.

A sudden flare of guilt ran through her. Growing up, art had been her escape. After after Yale, after she'd found a place for herself in the art world, she started volunteering at the Kirkwood children's shelter. She had spent her last nine Christmases at the shelter. While her art classes would never fix any of the kids' situations, she knew from experience that art could make their world a little less bleak. So this year, as selfish as it sounded to her own ears, she wanted to spend the day with her man. He made _her_ world a little less bleak.

Two years ago, Harold had come up to her in the park, holding an ice cream cone in the middle of December, and he said,  _Hello_. It was the sort of meet-cute that she would expect from a movie or a romance novel, never something that would actually happen in anyone's real life. But it _had_ happened. It happened to her: he said hello and she said hello back.

They talked. They spent so much time talking. He laughed at her jokes that she knew weren't funny and he always called the day after a date. Every thing that she knew told her to wait for the punchline. He was probably married -she seemed to attract married guys. And if it wasn't that, he was probably a closet alcoholic. Or gay, it took her a while to completely dismiss that idea. She waited for the inevitable trip-up, the cosmic ha-ha that would reveal just how flimsy this 'happily ever after' fantasy was.

She figured it had something to do with his job. After their first month of dating she still didn't quite understand how he earned a living. He said he was a freelance computer programmer which, she had to admit, sounded a little phony, but whatever, it was more original than 'secret agent'. By their second month together she was sure it would be his job that ended the fantasy.

Harold worked a lot. Sometimes from home but more often from "the office", a roving location that changed from job to job, a location that was always too secure to allow for a visit.

Then there was his thing with security cameras.

She never pressed him on it and he always looked so disconcerted and genuinely sorry when he had to interrupt a movie or conversation so that he could take a call. She assumed the other shoe would drop any day.

But it didn't. He kept calling, she kept accepting, and eventually, she didn't _want_ to know.

Did it matter that she could never 'stop by the office for lunch' if they had dinner together nearly every night? Or if, coming back to her after returning some urgent, after-hours phone call, he always came back with a focus directed so completely on her that it made her heart race?

Whatever it was (not a hit man, not a spy, not married, probably bi), it didn't matter. After waiting so long for him to disappoint her, the unmitigated truth was that he loved her and she had come to trust him, secrets and all. And suddenly, Grace Rosanna Hendricks, a woman who had done perfectly fine on her own, surviving on Campbell's soup and tuna salad sandwiches, found herself hopelessly attempting to cook Christmas dinner for her man because it had been far too long since she'd had a Christmas from which she didn't need to escape.

She draped her arm over his body and pulled herself closer, burying her nose in his chest. She didn't mind if he woke up now and from the way he cupped his hand at her bottom and eased his leg between hers, she guessed that he already had.

Above her head, Harold pulled the blanket away and stuck his face inside her cocoon. "Good morning. Mind if I join you in there?"

 


	6. Chapter 6

They eventually tunneled out of the sheets and set about their day. The weather forecast was cold and clear. No white Christmas this year, but Harold offered to build a fire anyway.

Grace treasured her childhood memories of Christmas mornings. Things got much messier as she grew older, but as a child, she'd felt a real magic in the day. Mom and Dad were together and happy. That didn't happen on just any old day. There was usually a toasty fire going in the big, formal dining room in the back of the house and she remembered how the flames reflected off the glass tree ornaments.

After everybody opened their presents it was time to get dressed for Christmas morning church services, and then the drive to her grandparents' house for dinner. It was perfect.

But she also remembered that first Christmas that Dad didn't come down to start the fire. When it was just her and Mom. They skipped church and grandma's, and dinner was dry chicken, gross green beans and mushroom soup, and jello salad. Afterward, Mom went to her room and cried.

There was no magic that Christmas morning. Grace eventually realized that magic wasn't free, and perfect, wonderful holidays were things for other people.

"It's awfully early in the day for such deep thoughts."

Grace jumped at the sound of Harold's voice. "Hm?"

"You. What's on your mind?" he asked, sitting their mugs of hot chocolate down on the coffee table before joining her on the couch. "You were off in the zone just a minute ago."

"Nothing," she said, pulling the edges of her robe over her legs. "I was just thinking how nice this is. I haven't used the fireplace in years."

"So there's a good chance we've just forcibly evicted a family of squirrels from the chimney?" he teased, reaching over to serve her a cup before taking up his own.

She gave an exaggerated sniff in the air and quirked a grin. "I'm from the South, remember? I'd know a good roasted squirrel if I smelled it."

"Has Rachel Ray done a cooking show on that too?"

"Oh, you are a just a devil, Harold!" she said, punching him lightly on the arm. "No. And if it makes you feel better, the ham in the fridge is one of those pre-cooked deals. All I have to do is add the glaze and heat it up."

"I have complete faith in your reheating skills," he said then pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Before that, I suppose we should open the gifts?"

"Can we? I've been eyeballing that little box all week."

"That one? Your wish is my command, my lady," he said. Untangling himself from her, Harold crossed over to the tree to collect the boxes and bring them to the table. "This one is heavy," he said, eying his name on the tag.

"And this one is not." She gave her little box a shake.

"Well, open it up. Let's see what Santa brought my Grace."

She set her cup down and gave the wrapped box her full attention. "I know for a fact that Santa didn't drop this off," she said, pulling the bow loose.

"So jaded," he said, his hand open to take the satiny ribbon from her.

"No. I just that I might be tempted to give somebody a thank you kiss later and that fluffy beard thing doesn't do it for me at all.

"I see," he said and brushed his hand over his chin. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

Grace worked her nail under the wrapping seam and pulled the paper back. Inside was a small box embossed with the Metropolitan Museum of Art logo. She opened the lid and her face lit up with a smile. "How did you know?"

"You lingered over them the last time we were at the gift shop."

"Harold, they're beautiful!" She eased the mounting card out of the box and cradled the Byzantine pendant earrings in her palm, tracing her fingers over the sapphires and pearls.

With his fingertips, Harold brushed her hair over her ear and whispered, "Let me see."

Grace unhooked the gold framed earrings and raised one to her ear. Harold lifted his glasses and leaned in closer. Grace flushed warm at his intense concentration on her. She felt him fan out a lock of hair behind her ear. He studied the luster of the earrings against her hair, then slowly moved back, bringing her eyes, her face, into focus. "They are beautiful," he said quietly, strumming his thumb over her ear as he held her gaze.

"Thank you," she whispered. The fire crackled and roared in the background. Grace slanted forward and swept a kiss over his lips. As she pulled away, her mouth curved into a smile at the fantastically loopy look on his face.

He was always so serious. She relished the rare flashes of this Harold. The Harold, she liked to think, that no one but her had ever seen: completely unguarded and genuinely happy.

Impulsively, she cupped her hand under his jaw and stormed in for another kiss. This time harder, desperate to catch and hold this moment forever.

"You were right," Harold whispered against her lips after she finally broke the kiss. "Santa didn't bring you anything. It was me. It was all me." And then he tipped her chin up for a third kiss.

Grace clutched the earrings in her hand as he coaxed her lips open. Bundled in their pajamas and house robes, the Christmas tree twinkling behind them, Grace could taste the sweet hot chocolate on his tongue and she pressed in for more.

The necessities of the human body had called short their playtime earlier, but now, as Harold fingered open the soft terry of her robe and trailed the kiss down her neck, Grace was afraid they'd lose the whole day here on the couch, in front of the fire.

"Don't blow it all now," she said, running her fingers though his soft, morning-floofy hair and guiding his head away. "We still have more boxes to unwrap."

Harold pulled off with a groan and a fourth, quick kiss before he pulled his glasses back down over his eyes and turned for the table. "Heavy one, or, other one?” he asked, testing the two wrapped gifts with his name on them.

"Heavy."

"Yes, ma'am." He set about unwrapping the box."

"Careful," she said as she pushed up on her knees to balance the gift on his leg.

"So it's fragile," he said, drawing out the words while he dipped his hand inside the wrapping to extract the wooden box and lift the lid. "Well..." he said as he pulled out the ceramic pot.

"We go to Cha An's at least twice a month. I don't know if we can replicate the whole ceremony here at home, but I thought it would be something nice to try on the weekends."

Packed with the Japanese kyusu teapot was a smaller, open-mouthed dish, and two matching cups, along with a small bag of rolled sencha green tea leaves.

"You know," he said, turning the kyusu in his hand to admire the sage green details that decorated the exterior, and the cool, unglazed interior of the teapot. "I have never tried to brew it myself. Not authentically."

"I'd guessed that. Otherwise, you would already have a set."

"You are observant," he said, his eyes twinkling.

"There should be an instruction book in there."

"Got it." He sat the pottery down carefully before thumbing through the booklet. "This is exactly how they do it at Cha An's," he said, looking at the illustrations.

"So? Is it a date? Next Saturday - my kitchen and yours?"

"It is indeed. Thank you, Grace." he repackaged the tea set and laid it aside. "This one next," he said as he passed over her next gift: a lightweight, but bulky looking thing wrapped in bright red paper. "I think it came with an instruction book too."

Grace gave him a skeptical glance as she accepted the supple package. Underneath the wrapping was a vivid, lapis blue winter scarf. The fabric was soft under her fingertips and she quickly pulled it out to its full length and draped it over her neck. She didn't need a mirror to confirm what she already knew: the scarf looked great against her hair and eyes. If the effect it seemed to be having on Harold was any indication, it was a perfect match. She tucked the ends under and gave him an impromptu fashion show, angling her chin to one side then the other. "Like it?"

"I do!" he said, adjusting the scarf where it fell over her exposed collar bones, and taking advantage of the chance to touch her. "Do you?"

"It's warm." Grace brought her hand up to cup his fingers. "Snuggly. I like it very much."

"I like you very much," he said, squeezing his thumb over her fingers. He held her hand for a moment then dropped his head, his cheeks flushed pink. "There's one more, if you want to open it now," he said softly.

"Okay," she said, glimpsing a flash of her secret Harold. She dropped a light kiss to his fingers.

Grace had a good idea of what was inside this last gift. The size and shape were achingly familiar, and she cast a glance over to her book shelf as he placed it in her hands. She took her time untying the ribbon, and unfolding the neat wrapping.

"Harold," she gasped as she revealed the Coralie Bickford-Smith illustrated, cloth-bound cover of the book. _Pride and Prejudice_ , the fourth book in a tradition that had begun last year.

Last year on her birthday, he had presented her with a Penguin classic cloth-bound edition of _Emma_ to complement _Sense and Sensibility_ on her shelf.

"I had the whole set when I was younger,” she'd told him. “When I moved to New York, Mom donated a lot of my old books and toys to the church. This one," she'd said, pulling the lonely book from the shelf. "This one had fallen behind my headboard. It wasn't until the year I graduated college and went home for the summer that I found it." Grace caught the book to her chest. "Jane, Charles, Emily... I had a lot of good times with them when I was a kid."

 _Emma_ , _Mansford Park_ , _Northanger Abbey_ , and joining the shelf shortly, _Pride and Prejudice_ , sat alongside one of the sole reminders of a truly happy period in her life.

The books were all reprints. She didn't care as much as he did about collecting. A good book, like art, was meant to be experienced and cherished, not locked away on display.

"What will you do when you finish off the whole set?" she asked, her voice quavering with a tinge of remorse.

"I'll think of something," he answered. "And after that I'll think of something else, just you wait."

Reverently, she placed the book down amid the nest of wrapping paper, ribbons and bows that littered the coffee table. There was one gift left and it was for Harold. "I cheated a little on this one," she said as she handed him the last present.

"Anything that you regretted the next morning?" Harold teased. Curious, he tore the printed wrapping paper open, and then the cardboard packing box, with its colorful eBay logo, under that.

"Nope. No regrets at all." She was up on her knees watching with undisguised anticipation as he unsealed the box.

"Oh my, how did you find these?"

"Jana, the girl who does my website, she found them for me online."

Harold took out the two smaller boxes inside and handed one to Grace. "This is the original packaging and everything," he said as he gingerly pulled the top flap open. "This is just like mine!"

"I had to do some math, and I hoped I guessed right – model G. Did you know that they've been producing View-Master projectors and reels since 1920?"

"I knew they were old but..." Harold's voice trailed off as he turned the beige, vintage toy in his hand. He looked over at the second box, still unopened in her lap. "You got one too?"

"Yeah. That's what I meant when I said I cheated."

"Well, open it up," he said in a rush before going back to the box for the image reels. "Grand Teton, Colonial Williamsburg, Mexico, Lake Louise - where's that?" he said as he flipped the sleeve over. "Ah, Canada." He flipped through the rest of the reels, calling out the names of places both exotic, and familiar. "Brooklyn Botanic Garden. This is a veritable treasure trove, Grace!"

"See?" she said with a a wide smile. "Not a single regret!"

"What time is it?" he asked as he lay the View-Master aside for the moment. "How long does your ham need in the oven?"

"Not a clue."

"Why don't we get that started. Clear all of the wrapping away, heat up two more cups of cocoa, and then come back here for a return trip to “Scenic Italy?”"

"That sounds positively wonderful!"

 


End file.
